


The Blue Night Has Risen On Our Foreheads, Softly

by Filigranka



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Bonds of Loyalty, Force Sex (Star Wars), Ghost Sex, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Incest, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, That's Not How The Force Works, Threesome - F/M/M, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 08:50:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19971322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/pseuds/Filigranka
Summary: In a way, Luke's with her more often after his death than during his life. Sometimes in the rather inappropriate moments (not that anybody cares).





	The Blue Night Has Risen On Our Foreheads, Softly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fairleigh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fairleigh/gifts).



> Title stolen from Georg Trakl, the patron poet of all brother-sister incest (along with Byron, of course).

‘Look at me,’ pleads Poe as his lips travel along the side of her neck, ‘please, Leia, General, please. Watch me.’

His thrusts are gentle, rhythmical and almost too focused on her body’s responses, almost like he wants to ask for a permission before each one of them. Like he’d need to assure himself she’s here, with him, at least partly.

He’s a good boy and a loyal soldier, and if they met a dozen or so years earlier, he might become a friend – so she indulges him. Turns her face to him. Strokes his hair. Sighs something about his impulse control, always watching.

This is true, from a certain point of view. Since Luke’s death, the Force’s song in Leia has gotten so much stronger, louder, clearer, no longer a voice, but a choir. She senses, feels and _sees_ so many things, now, shifting in the back of her mind, creeping into her vision, getting trapped in her thoughts. Sometimes it’s someone on the other side of the galaxy. Sometime it’s a nearby tree struck by a sickness. Sometimes it’s the whole ocean, a one big colony of smaller organisms, leaving its fickle, barely noticeable trail in the history of the universe – of life – of the Force.

She’s so overwhelmed, sometimes. Poe helps. Luke’s guidance helps, too.

‘Only my guidance?’ Luke’s finger – the feeling of his finger, the impression of his finger’s feeling, whatever, it feels, it _is_ real – leaves her clit.

Leia grunts in disappointment. Poe immediately starts sucking her earlobe and she smiles, whispering ‘Right on the target, pilot.’ Poe’s pride flickers in the Force, so bright and so delicate.

One needs to tend to it like to the fire.

‘Or to the garden.’

There’s nothing more precious to Luke than the green, nothing worth to be patient, careful and tender with. Leia doesn’t say this aloud – Poe knows Luke’s here, of course, she’d never deceive him, but it’d still be the most impolite reminder. Besides, she doesn’t have to. Physical words seem so… inefficient, sometimes.

‘No at all. Love is. You are.’ Luke’s presence is a steady warmth around her head and back, and she’s lying in his lap, his hands playing with her hair and her face buried in his robe – milk, sweat and fire; Luke’s smell, swallowing the one of a jungle around them – allowing Dameron the easy access to her neck.

Even if in this material, tired world she’s in her bed on Chandrila, lying flat on her back, her pillow long forgotten on the floor and her legs crossed over Poe’s shoulders, sliding along his spine as she urges him to go faster, get lower, rub against her now-abandoned clit.

Luke sighs. ’Except you’ve never liked patience.

His his hand miraculously – impossibly – finds its way between Leia’s and Poe’s bodies, lies down above her vaginal opening, right next to Poe's penis thrusting into her, and Luke falls thumb on Leia’s clitoris, again.

They’re just lying there for what feels like an eternity. Leia feels all marks on his skins, small scars, hollows and callouses from the life of a physical labour. The map of his life on his hand. It’s intimate – it’s beautiful – it’s what she longed for through the years of Luke’s absence – but she needs so much more _now_.

Leia’s breath becomes erratic and she whispers Dameron’s name, again and again. She means it as a plea – to him, to Luke – but it comes out commanding instead.

(She wants _now_. Her orgasm, Luke, Dameron, freedom, her son, the victory. Now is sure.)

If Luke wanted her to be patient, he shouldn’t have made a habit of disappearing and reappearing out of the blue. If the Force wanted her to patient, it shouldn’t have made a habit of taking everything from her. And Poe – Poe doesn’t mind her impatience at all.

(In a minute – ha. A minute later, they may all be gone.)

Luke’s hand finally moves. It’s slow, so, so slow. And gentle, too gentle, with almost no pressure, making her focus on the texture of his skin, keeping her on edge.

Leia’s feet almost stab into Poe, when she tries to bury him deeper in her body. He laughs and kisses her. His kiss is breathless, his hair are plastered to his brow and glistening from sweat – and his thrusts are finally becoming hard enough.

When she comes, the universe swirls before her eyes, past and future becoming one, supernovas melting into the dark holes, dark holes shaping the galaxies, galaxies blossoming with life.

(She lets them grow. She lets them shatter.)

Leia lets herself moan into Poe’s mouth. Leia lets herself close her eyes and see Luke, young as on the day when he come into her cell. It lasts millennia.

It doesn’t last long enough

She’s back on her bad, suddenly hyper-aware that sheets got wrinkled and C-3PO will be complaining about it at morning. She pets Poe hair, while he kisses her breasts and repeats her name and titles, like a prayer. Leia, Leia, General, Senator, Leia, Her Highness, Chancellor, Leia, Leia.

Luke kisses her, too. On a brow, just below the hairline. Very chastise, she thinks dryly, still feeling this infuriating caress between her thighs, even more infuriating – breathtaking – now, when she’s so tender, when she still can feel the faint echo of the shattering galaxies in the shivering of her muscles.

Luke grins. ‘Oh, I can be more inappropriate,’ he whispers, his forehead touching hers. ‘I just thought we should give Poe a chance.’

His – the Force’s, the ghost’s, it can’t matter less – finger slides inside her, right along Poe’s member.

Leia gasps, before catching herself. She’s still oversensitive, but Luke’s finger – fingers, he adds another one almost instantly, and she swallows it easily – feels so good. She’s full, yet her muscles are stretching even more and she wants more, she wants Luke whole, she wants to devour him, she wants (the galaxy, stars, planets, Luke, Poe, her son, freedom, life and the Force) everything.

No patience, indeed. Birth of a man, birth of a star, birth of a galaxy, stretch inside her like ever-expending universe. She laughs and buries her face Poe’s hair, kisses the top of his head. Post-coital thoughts, always so incredibly silly.

Poe’s breath gets faster and deeper, and the half-whine, half-groan escapes his lips, as he slowly starts to cant his hips again, slowly yet.

‘Leia,’ he whispers, coarsely, ‘Leia, is it – good? Am I – damn, it feels so damn –’

She says “yes, go on, I’m here, yes, yes, yes” and bites on a handful of his hair to keep herself from moaning, when Luke’s third finger slides inside her.

She wonders if Poe feels this sudden tightness, too, someone’s else presence or some pressure, or is he aware only of her muscles clenching. In and out, in and out. The smallest, gentle circles. Stretching and stretching. The solid shape of Poe’s member, somehow – oh, this is, indeed, very inappropriate, brother – thickening again.

It’s almost too much (it’s not enough, never enough).

Her second orgasm is much calmer. She’s sensed its coming, seen it. Like a river’s slowly rising water. Walking into the lake, further and further from the shore, deeper and deeper, waiting for a moment when ground will end and you’ll start to float. Weightless. Limitless. Carefree.

Luke’s grinning like a well-fed pittin. ‘I’ve told you, patience is worth it.’


End file.
